


Ashes to Ashes

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: A touch of morbidness, Anal Sex, Cemetery, Explicit Sexual Content, Kripke is a dick, M/M, Mortuary Sex, Rimming, a heavy petting of lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, if you hide out long enough, he will find you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/gifts).



The cemetery in Arlington Heights has long since been reclaimed by nature, but Bass knew the layout like the back of his hand. After all, he’d been living on the premises for the past two years. He was the unofficial caretaker, the living ghost who flitted among the forgotten graves, with a casual greeting towards a tombstone, “Hello there, Mr. Kowalski,” as he would occasionally clear the shrubbery from a familiar grave. He hadn’t known these people when they were alive. Heck, most of them were dead before Bass was ever born. But something about performing these menial tasks gave him the semblance of purpose, a legitimate excuse to reside in the abandoned mortuary. He was just the local hermit, the hunter with indelible aim, the quiet man who grew tomatoes on the lawn behind the mortuary in the summer months. 

His own family was here too. That was the main reason he had returned, but not the only reason. He supposed the real reason had nothing to do with reality. Just the stupid, insistent voice in the back of brain which occasionally whispered, “One day... he will find you.” And in the meantime there were the abandoned graves. After the numbers of people Bass had personally put in the ground, it was the obvious choice: his own limbo, his own Valley of the Fallen.

Mostly, people left him alone. But news still managed to travel, even here. After all, he had a reputation of being able to skin an animal with surprising skill and agility, which inadvertently led to trading, and that, in turn, led to human interaction. General Matheson, leader of the former Monroe Republic, people said was working on a truce with Texas. There was even a rumor that he was contemplating taking the daughter of the Texan leader for his bride. It reeked of the dark ages, something so feudal that even Bass would never have thought of it. Then again, Bass figured, he wasn’t really ever the brains behind the operation. Just the face. With Miles in the role of Cyrano, whispering lines to him under the balcony.

Bass hoped it would be a happy marriage, or at least, not a profoundly unhappy one. He hoped perhaps she would give Miles children. Fat, happy children, who would grow up to be proud of their father. Children who wouldn’t leave him.

He had long since given up on the hope of ever finding his own son out there in the great unknown. He would be twenty years old now, Bass mused. _Perhaps, one day he’ll come to kill me too._

The path to his family’s plot was, not surprisingly, the most well-trodden on the territory. He visited them every Sunday (or so he thought - Bass has long since lost count of the calendar). About fifty yards from his destination, Bass pulled up short and palmed the handle of his rifle and watched the figure who stood out starkly against white expanses of the snow. 

Bass had trained the rifle on the stranger’s head and called out, “Get your hands up where I can see ‘em!”

The figure made no movement to flee and Bass watched as the man raised his hands up in the air, still facing away from him.

“Don’t shoot,” the man called back.

“Jesus Christ, Miles!”

“I thought you knew to be expecting me.” The man, _Miles_ , had taken off his hood to reveal his time-worn and weather-beaten face.

“Jeremy said you’d be here faster than a reasonable man would expect, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.” Bass re-slung his shotgun over his shoulder.

“You are obviously not a reasonable man.”

“Thanks for that, by the way, sending Jeremy over here to talk to me, instead of coming yourself, you giant pussy.”

“I thought you two would enjoy a nice reunion.”

“Yeah, if by that you mean having Jeremy drink the last of my _good_ vodka.” Miles gave Bass a quizzical look at which the younger man shrugged. “What? I’m all out of bourbon.”

***

The mortuary was surprisingly warm, especially in the part of the building Bass had appropriated for his personal residence. Miles walked over to the warmly glowing fireplace and rubbed his hands together in front of the flames in the casual manner of a man who felt at home there. Bass scanned his silhouette from the opposite side of the room. There was a certain tiredness in the slope of Miles’ shoulders, but no tightness. He had cut his hair, Bass noted with a certain amount of relief, since the last time they saw each other, and no longer resembled every single one of the Gypsy Kings. Bass brushed his fingers alongs the butt of his rifle and finally lowered it off his shoulder, leaning it against the corner of the room.

“Ahem,” Bass cleared his throat rather ostensibly and took a step forward. “Do you want... a drink or something? Hm..? There might be something Jeremy didn’t drink. Sorry, I’m out of whiskey, your first love, and all that.” He knew was talking too much, and was equally cognizant of the fact that he did it to cover up his nervousness, simultaneously acknowledging that Miles would be able to see through that glaring ruse.

Miles turned towards him slowly, his eyes dark and unreadable, his features composed, except for the tell-tale swallow in his throat, drawing Bass’ eyes involuntary to that groove at the base of his neck.

“No,” Miles finally replied. “I want to feel you.”

Bass didn’t remember taking the requisite steps forward. One moment he was standing by the doorway, and the next he had his arms full of Miles and the blaze of the fireplace lending unnecessary heat to his body. Miles smelled of old leather, snow, and desperation, and tasted of home. There wasn’t anything else to say, so Bass traced his tongue tentatively along the crease of Miles’ upper lip, before nibbling on it and opening his own mouth so that Miles’ own tongue could slip inside. He remembered these kinds of kisses most fondly, the ones that felt like Miles wanted to do nothing more than fuck his mouth with his tongue, a foreshadow of what was to come. A tantalizing threat of violence underneath the surface of passion.

Miles moaned into Bass’ mouth and a palpable shiver ran down his limbs. Bass growled and pulled at Miles’ coat, looking quite offended by its existence. 

“Bed?” Miles gasped, his fingers idly grasping for the back of Bass’ neck, clutching the curls of his hair to keep his face close, closer, the closest.

“What’s wrong with right here, Princess?”

Miles snickered and tossed his coat to the rug, spinning Bass out of his own parka and tossing it into the growing pile.

“I’m getting old, Bass. I have bad knees.” His mouth formed an ostentatious pout, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement.

“I guess you’ll have to stay off your knees then.” Bass pushed, and Miles pulled, and they had become another pile, this time of flesh and limbs, next to their discarded winter-wear. Bass had crawled into Miles lap, like a writhing feline, all tongue and nails and blue eyes so full of need that Miles was afraid he was going to get off just from looking at him.

“Don’t... be...” It was difficult to speak with their mouths biting, sucking, and attacking each other in a coordinated assault which almost required no input from their minds. “...wearing...clothes. _Off_.” Miles had hoped he was making himself abundantly clear, but on the off hand chance Bass wasn’t quite following, he grabbed at the remaining layers of his lover’s attire, and tried to pull them over Bass’ head. Bass aided in his endeavors obligingly and returned to sucking bruises into Miles’ collarbones. 

“I want you,” Bass breathed against his neck. “I missed you so much, you fucking asshole.”

“I’m gonna make it up to you,” Miles whispered, his eyes burning with promise. “All of it.” 

Cradling Bass’ back, Miles flipped them both over to give himself better purchase and he trailed his lips down Bass’ exposed chest, tongue gently tracing the raised skin over his scars. How many of those was he responsible for himself? His fingers kneaded the pliant flesh below him as he tried to force those thoughts away. He was responsible for deeper scars than these, after all. He pulled at the band of Bass’ pants, exposing the pale skin of his hips to the cool air of the mortuary, unable to repress the urge to cover those jutting hip bones in kisses and bites. Bass whimpered.

“Fuck, Miles... please.”

Another tug, and Miles was able to discard the remnants of Bass’ attire into the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. For a few moments, all Miles could do was look. It wasn’t fair: Bass was too beautiful, too desirable, and very much _his_. Why did he ever think he could stay away? Idiot.

Bass’ thighs gave little involuntary twitches as Miles lazily ran his fingers along them, stroking the upper side first, then the underside, watching with lust-blown eyes as Bass grew harder and dug his fingernails into the old rug underneath.

“ _Get on with it_ ,” Bass’ voice was gravelly with need. Miles smiled. “Jesus Fucking Christ, Miles, you can take your time admiring the view later. Fuck me!”

Miles briefly contemplated a sassy retort, another protracted tease, but his own cock gave an angry twitch inside his slacks, forcing him to concede and lift Bass’ thighs upwards, spreading them with his hands to give himself better access.

“What... oh my God, what are you... FUCK.” Bass threw his head back and arched his body off the floor. Miles was drawing very precise circles with his tongue around his opening, interspersing them with long licks, followed by short stabs at his entry. “Miles..,” Bass moaned and shut his eyes against the onslaught of pleasure. Miles practically hummed with enjoyment along his sensitized skin, his tongue making the breach, exploring his insides. Bass threw his arm over his eyes, unable to take it, his mind reeling at the idea that this was the thing Miles would want to do first after all their time apart, locked between false hatred and presumed indifference. Bass was fairly sure he had forgotten to breathe by the time the tongue was joined by a finger, then two, beginning to stretch him open.

If either of them had ever been religious men, they would have blushed profusely at the amount of blasphemies rolling off Bass’ tongue as he bucked wantonly into Miles’ face and attempted to drive those fingers deeper inside him. Miles looked up, beaming at the flushed look on Bass’ face, his heaving chest which was beginning to show the first signs of perspiration, his cock bouncing militantly against his abdomen with each rocking of his hips, smearing his stomach in shiny streaks of pre-cum. He added another finger and watched Bass cry out again as he hit his prostate with practiced precision.

“Jesus Titty-Fucking Christ!” Bass bucked up and locked eyes with Miles, resembling an undone madman more than a more put-together version of himself. “How are you still wearing pants? Fuck.”

“I... don’t know,” Miles admitted, at a loss for witty retorts. His pants had been uncomfortably tight for a while, possibly only kept up by his own bulging erection. Miles reached into his back pocket, producing a small vial of something viscous, grinning like the cat who got the cream, before finally undoing his fly. “Fuck it, this will have to do,” he groaned, producing his cock out of his pants and applying the oil to himself.

“Good for you, you boy scout,” Bass nodded his approval and clutched at the back of Miles’ neck, bringing him closer, trying to kiss the very breath of him while Miles finally positioned himself and began the familiar, long slide in.

It was the purest joy, the kind of perfect ecstasy that Miles had long since forgotten to believe in. It was more than coming home, better than being reborn, it was everything and yet not enough at the same time. He craved and he possessed, simultaneously, and as he kissed the heated skin of Bass’ face and neck, he was perfectly fine admitting that the wetness on his own face was the streaks of his long-withheld tears. His hand firmly stroked the velvety skin of Bass’ shaft, thumb slowly teasing at the hole, as he lost himself in the unbearable tightness that was Bass, _his_ Bass, his love.

At last, they both lay on the rug spent, Bass’ eyes closed, fingers rubbing soothing circles into the prickling skin of Miles’ skull, wet skin against skin. 

“So,” Bass whispered, lips pressed against the top of Miles’ ear, “You um... really gonna marry that Texan lass?”

Miles snorted into his chest.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bass.” Miles scooted up and pulled Bass’ face in for another lingering kiss. It was softer but no less heated than the kisses they exchanged earlier. It was another promise. “You know I can’t. That would be bigamy.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t be an ass. We tried to kill each other; we didn’t get a divorce.”

Bass laughed.

“Yeah, well, no one knows about that,” he replied, placing another soft kiss upon Miles’ jaw.

“We know.”

They did know. And it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed your Miloe porn! I owe a debt of gratitude to 3988Akasha for beta. If it wasn't for her, my priorities may have "course corrected" Kripke-style off the cliff ;)


End file.
